‘C’mon,’ Les said. ‘The right, fatarse, all you ever had.’
‘Fuck you.’ Villani pushed a few, Les blocked, backed off, stepped in, jab, jab, jab, then his right hit Villani in the face.
Being welcome at Bombers meant being serious about training and boxing and not minding being told by Les what you were doing wrong, why it was he was able to hit you so easily, you fuckhead. He walked you around, smacked you a bit, it didn’t hurt much but it was tiring and, even when you were smart to it, after a while it upset your feet, you lost balance, and then he gave you his left hook to the head, to the body, a good punch, not weakening much as the years passed.
‘So fucken slow, fatty,’ he said now.
They feinted and feinted, Villani went forward, kept his elbows tucked in, tried to push Les back, Les darted left, Villani followed, gave him a flurry of punches, all blocked, Les fooled him, came in, poked him in the solar plexus with a short right hand, hit him in the ribs with a left, pain.
‘Jesus,’ said Villani. ‘Take it easy. I’m tired.’
‘You girl,’ said Les. ‘You cop girl.’
It wasn’t amusing. He stalked Les, legs heavy, breathing hard after less than a minute. He never caught him, made a few swipes, lost concentration, tried to take his head off.
‘Jeez, we’re a fighter now?’ said Les. ‘Wasted my time. Technique, sonny, technique or you’re just an arsehole in a pub.’
Villani started boxing because he wasn’t brave, because his father always acted as if his oldest boy was brave and his oldest boy knew he wasn’t. That haunted him. He thought boxing might give him courage. It didn’t but he loved it from the start-the exercises, the drills. And most of all the sparring, the fighting. In the ring, in the thrall of adrenalin, looking over the fence of your fists into the stone eyes of the other man, a great calm took you.
There was nothing else, a world stopped. Just the two of you, the smell of glove leather, of resin, of the salve, you were in a dance, hypnotised by each other. In the ring, time became elastic, it extended, contracted, extended. You felt alive in a way you never felt otherwise. There was a sense of order, there were rules, there was clear intent, ways and means, there was discipline and power. You felt little pain, your concentration on your opponent was total. He was your universe. He was you and you were him.
Les stopped walking away, came at him, at his face and body, up, down, four, five, six, seven punches, a sequence done ten thousand times, Villani covered, going back, flat-footed, hands too high for a second, just off balance.
The left hand dug into his right armpit, a sharp pain went through his body, Les’s right banged into his head, water in his eyes.
Villani shook his head, dropped his hands, panting, nauseous, spat his guard. ‘Happy, gramps?’ he said. ‘Let you hit me a few. Nanna-nap time now?’
Les patted him on the arm. ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘For a fucked old cop. Still got a good right, feet work a bit.’
Out of the ring, Les said, ‘You want to train here, it’s two days a week minimum or fuck off. And don’t shit me about work. On the television, all bloody actors, that’s what you cop pricks do.’
In the car, his mind went to the Prosilio girl. Her body already so marked by life. Did she start out like Lizzie, a loved child? Who would tell her father his little girl was dead? Fucked to death in a palace.
Lizzie.
Prim little girl with pigtails, she sat on the couch in the old sitting room, before the renovation, didn’t watch television, she drew pictures in her big book. He remembered putting her to bed when she was little. First the dolls had to be put to sleep, one at a time, she had about twenty. It took so long he couldn’t bear it, he called for Laurie to take over.
Fussy child, she wouldn’t eat meat, wouldn’t eat fish, didn’t like foods mixed on her plate, lifted her upper lip in distaste, showed gum, tiny white stubs, provisional teeth.
It always pissed him off. Corin and Tony had eaten everything.
Jesus, Stephen, don’t make an issue of it. It’s a phase, some kids are like this.
Not in my day.
Well, maybe trained killers aren’t the best role models for parenting. Not a barracks we’re living in here.
Knockout punch. He couldn’t defend his father, his own upbringing. He wouldn’t know how to begin. He’d never thought of Bob as a father, more a dominating older brother, a much, much older brother who could stop you dead with a look, move a hand in a way that suggested he could backhand you into oblivion. He never did that, he never hit any of them. He didn’t have to.
Paul Keogh’s grating voice on the radio:
…Keystone Cops events in South Melbourne late last night ended in two dead on the Western Ring Road. I’m reliably told that the prime suspects in the Oakleigh massacre escaped from a block of units in Roma Street while police watched. Yes, people, the place was under high-tech surveillance. Brilliant or what? On the line, we’ve got the head of police communication, hello Geoff Searle.
Morning, Paul.
This South Melbourne thing, that’s a major cause for concern, isn’t it?
With respect, Paul, things happen in police operations no one can control, this was a Suspects escaped while you watched, that’s it, isn’t it?
I can’t comment on what happened except to say that our officers behaved with the utmost professionalism and…
C’mon, Geoff, how sick are you of serving up that old line? Utmost professionalism my bum, not to put too fine a point on it. Two murder suspects escape while you’re watching and then they die as a result of a high-speed pursuit…
Paul, there was no high-speed pursuit, that’s just wrong…
I can’t expect you to come right out and say what you and I both know, can I? That this South Melbourne cock-up is par for the course, isn’t it? What do you say to the rumour that the suspects were tipped off from inside the force?
I say simply ridiculous, Paul. Simply ridiculous. There is absolutely…
Let’s see what the listeners think, Geoff, let’s open the lines and…
With respect, Paul, I haven’t come here to take part in talkback, I have no authority to do that.
Oh sorry. My mistake. I thought you spoke on behalf of the force? Haven’t you just been speaking on behalf of the force? Who exactly do you speak for, Geoff?
COLBY WAS at the window, he went back around the desk. He moved like a young man, he behaved like one too, lived in a highrise in Docklands with his new wife, a real-estate agent, young, blond, pregnant, it was said.
‘Terrible shitstorm this,’ he said. ‘Hear that fucking Keogh?
‘Yes.’
‘That kind of thing is not what the leadership wants to hear around election time.’
‘What leadership is that?’
‘All the leadership. I thought I was giving off the signals last night. To a bloke knows me a bit. Sit.’
Villani said, ‘I listen to advice and I use my judgment.’
‘With shit like this,’ said Colby, ‘you would say the sensible go is call the Soggies, they remove the back wall, simultaneously doing their rope trick, what’s it called?’
‘Rappelling.’
‘Yes, that crap. They grab them, excellent, Oakleigh massacre, men held. If they kill the targets, right pricks, wrong pricks, it’s their fault, you walk away blaming gun-crazy gymrats.’
‘Over the years,’ said Villani, ‘I’ve gained the impression Homicide’s business is catching people who’ve killed other people. Putting them on trial.’